Ten Little Words

by Leah Mercer

A bitter taste filled her mouth. The festival. As if she could go onstage and sing in front of hundreds of people. She wasn’t talented; she wasn’t special . . . not like Frank had led her to believe. He’d only wanted one thing, and the second he’d got it, he’d told her the truth: she was an amateur who might be an easy lay, a dime a dozen. And Mike, well . . . maybe Frank had been lying, but maybe he hadn’t. Either way, she’d never be able to trust Mike now. She’d never be able to trust herself. Any song inside her had been snuffed out.

  She’d told herself to focus on the wedding instead; that at least she still had Bertie. Never in a million years would she attempt to tell him what had happened. She was certain he’d believe her . . . and then she’d recall Frank’s threat of telling Bertie they’d been together all those nights at home and during the tour. She’d remember the times she and Frank had been laughing together; of how Bertie might have overheard Frank saying she was delaying the wedding, and a seed of doubt would form. She might be Bertie’s fiancée, but he had only known her a short time. Frank was his brother – the brother he still felt responsible for. He’d rescued Frank from scrapes for years. Would he be able to see her as anything other than yet another problem to free his brother from? Who would his loyalty be stronger to?

  She couldn’t risk the possibility that he might believe Frank over her. She didn’t think she could survive that.

  So she’d thrown herself into wedding preparations, thankful that Bertie had agreed to have a very small wedding with just the two of them. Jude forced herself to try on wedding gowns, forcing down the bile that pushed at her throat. She tried her best to care about the flowers, the decorations, the shoes she’d wear, the honeymoon . . . but all she felt was numbness, as if a dummy was getting married and not a real, live person – a person who was able to love, to feel. Despite Bertie’s endless questions about how things were coming along, she’d barely been able to talk to him at all. The silence that had once been so comfortable, curling around them in their little cocoon, now separated them like a cold, icy wall.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bertie was staring at her like she was a toy that needed winding again. He’d asked her a million times since she’d come home if she was okay, if he could do anything, if she was feeling ill . . . She’d latched on to that, saying she was a little under the weather after the tour but she’d be all right. She just needed time to lie low and recover.

  At least she hoped – she prayed – that was all she needed. And it was true that she wasn’t feeling well, apart from what was happening inside her head. Her body seemed to be protesting, too, dragged down with fatigue and fog. Her stomach on fire every time she tried to eat. Even Bertie’s special pancakes couldn’t tempt her.

  When her period hadn’t appeared, she’d told herself it was the stress of the tour and the upset of what had happened that had thrown her off. She’d taken her birth control pills, as usual . . . although she’d forgotten that one night when they’d all got a bit (okay, a lot) drunk after a gig that truly was in the middle of nowhere. But one pill didn’t matter, right?

  Except maybe it did.

  She begged any existing higher power that, this month of all months, she would be okay. The universe couldn’t be cruel enough to make her fall pregnant now, after what had happened . . . when she wouldn’t even know who or what life the baby belonged to: the love of her life, in a romantic idyll with Bertie; or a short, vicious attack by a man she now loathed. Would she love the baby and cherish it with all her might, or dread looking at its sweet face because of the horrific memories it invoked? This pregnancy would be a nightmare – an escalation of the nightmare she was already living; a nightmare where she couldn’t even find her voice, let alone carry a melody. That was the reality of it, and she could only hope she’d managed to escape without bringing a baby into it.

  She’d brought a urine sample to the doctor Bertie had helped her register with when she’d first moved up here but had never had to see until now. She’d told herself it was only to rule out the possibility, so she wouldn’t need to worry about it any more. It was the only way of staying calm – the only way to keep the scream that had been building inside of her from escaping.

  That had been a few days ago, and although the doctor had offered to call as soon as he had the results, she’d shaken her head. She couldn’t take the chance of Bertie picking up the phone; of the questioning look on his face. She wasn’t going to lie to him. She couldn’t lie to him. He was the only clean, perfect thing left in her life.

  Today, she would go back to the doctor for the results. Today, she would find out if there was a child growing inside of her . . . a baby she wouldn’t know whether to love or loathe.

  Jude waited a few minutes until she was sure that Bertie was on the bus to work, then pulled herself up off the sofa. She hadn’t been outside of the house since her trip to the doctor a couple of days ago, and her muscles felt cramped and achy from the lack of movement. She heaved her body up the stairs and into the bedroom, feeling it was a weight to drag around rather than flesh, bones and muscles that buzzed with energy, like they used to. She wished she could just slough off this body now and float, free, away somewhere.

  She had a quick shower, screwed her hair back into a ponytail, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Then she went back downstairs and shoved on her shoes, grabbed a coat and went out into the fresh morning. The sun hurt her eyes after being inside for so long, and she hurried her legs forward, moving faster and faster until her muscles strained and her lungs burned. She kept going, wanting the pain to blot out everything else, to stop her brain from swirling through the different scenarios.

  Finally, after a torturous half-hour wait, the doctor called her into his office. She settled into her chair and trained her eyes on him, focusing only on his face and not on the words he might say. It was all she could do to stop from running out.

  ‘Well.’ The doctor put on his specs and opened her file, then looked up at her.

  Jude breathed in. Then out. Then in.

  ‘You are pregnant,’ he said, and her breath stopped.

  Her life stopped, and she knew straight away there was no point trying to breathe again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  JUDE

  July 1982

  Jude hurriedly packed her jeans, the thin summer dresses she’d never got a chance to wear, and as many of her T-shirts and jumpers as she could fit inside her bag. She eyed the selection of colourful dresses she usually wore on stage, running her fingers over the crushed purple velvet of her favourite one. Was there any point even packing this? She already knew she wouldn’t sing again. The music had dried up inside of her, a cracked, barren landscape that had once been lush with notes and melodies.

  She turned from the wardrobe, her mind flitting back to when she’d first packed to leave Hastings and come here. It had only been two years, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, she’d been full of love and hope for the future – with a man she knew better than anyone, despite only having him in her life for a short time. Looking back, the move here seemed rash even to her, but her heart had been right: she and Bertie were wonderful together.

  Jude paused, tears coming to her eyes. Had been wonderful together. She’d felt safer than ever before. Coming here had made her see what life with a person you love could really be like. But that hadn’t been enough for her, had it? she thought angrily, swiping at her cheek as tears spilled down them. She’d wanted more, and look where that had got her. If only she’d just stayed with Bertie, then they could have been happy for ever.

  But that wasn’t going to happen now, she thought, getting to her feet and staring out of the window, the rush of the river meeting her ears. That couldn’t happen . . . not now, not with this baby inside of her. She’d left the doctor yesterday and made her way slowly home, every step like a funeral march. She’d known as soon as the doctor said those words that she couldn’t stay with Bertie; couldn’t be in his life. How could she, knowing the baby insi
de of her might possibly be his, but could also be his brother’s? She’d made love with Bertie just two days before Frank had—

  She pushed away the thought. Bertie must never know about the attack. Even if he did believe her, well . . . Bertie knowing what had happened would shatter them; would break their perfection into a million sharp pieces neither one of them could walk over without bloodying their feet. Bertie would never be able to forgive Frank, and he’d look at her exactly how she didn’t want to be seen – exactly how she’d been looked at for years after the death of her parents: as someone to be pitied, as someone who was damaged. They would never be able to move forward from that.

  And then the baby . . . this baby, whose father was either the best thing or the worst thing to have happened to her . . . She couldn’t stay here, watching Bertie be its father while desperately praying it might actually be so. And she couldn’t get rid of it, for even if she wasn’t ready – not in a million years – this baby might be the only legacy of her love for Bertie, a light in the dark. She had to believe that. She would believe that.

  And so she was doing the only thing she could: she was leaving. There would be no wedding. There couldn’t be. Bertie would be upset – okay, more than upset – but less than if she told him the truth, that much she knew for sure. She grabbed the pad and pencil that he kept by the phone in the bedroom and bit her lip, her throat tightening when she pictured him returning from work with an eager smile on his face as he climbed the stairs, expecting to find her napping under the cosy quilt. Instead, the bedroom would be empty; the house silent and still.

  She zipped her bag closed before the pain engulfed her. She had to keep moving. It was the only way not to let the pain catch her and press down on her. She scrawled a few words that she couldn’t do this any more and that she was leaving. Bertie shouldn’t try to find her, and she wouldn’t be back. She left the note unsigned on the centre of the bed – the bed where she’d first realised what it meant to love; the bed where she’d understood what it was like to be safe. But nothing could keep her safe, not even the man she loved. She knew that now.

  She swallowed and tried to lift the necklace from her neck, but she couldn’t: every part of her resisted. Her fingers closed around the heavy heart, and she thought of the message inside of it, the words that had only left her lips for two people: her mother and Bertie. Her mother was gone, but she was still in Jude’s soul. And even though Jude may be gone from Bertie’s life, he would always be a part of her – someone who had shown her how to love, as corny as that sounded.

  She wasn’t breaking the pledge, she told herself. She couldn’t be with him now, but she’d always carry him in her heart. This necklace would come with her, a symbol of her love.

  So, it was back to Hastings. She’d move in with Carolyn and try to figure out what to do next. She screwed up her face, just imagining Carolyn’s reaction when she turned up at the door, ‘I told you so’ written all over her smug features.

  The thing was, Carolyn was wrong – she couldn’t be further from wrong. She and Bertie had been so good together, until . . .

  Jude grabbed her bag and swung down the spiral stairs, lifted her coat from its peg, and closed the door behind her. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t pause for one second to look backwards, because she’d collapse if she did. Besides the baby inside of her, she was only taking one thing; one token to sustain her through the dark days she knew were ahead.

  She touched the chain around her neck and turned away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ELLA

  I spent the next few days tracing a path from home, to work, to the hospital and home again. Aunt Carolyn was recovering from the operation and would be discharged soon, thank goodness. Sitting by her bed – without her jumping up and buzzing around like usual – made me realise that, until now, we’d hardly ever talked. Much of that had been my fault, of course, and there had always been something for her to do. Rarely had she sat still for longer than a minute. Now, we had hours.

  At first, the silence between us had seemed a little awkward, but gradually she’d started talking about my grandmother, what it had been like growing up with my mum, and their childhood together. Before, I would have shut my ears and changed the subject, but now I didn’t mind. I wanted to see my mother as a person, not just a woman who’d left her child. Now that I could understand what had driven her from me, I was open to really knowing her.

  I supposed I could be angry at my aunt for withholding who my father was all these years; for keeping up the lie my mother first told me. But how could I? She’d been protecting me, the same way I’d been protecting myself all these years, trying to stop anyone or anything from reaching me. My mother’s death would always leave a mark on my heart, but it didn’t have to be all scar tissue. Underneath, there was a part that was still tender . . . a part of me that was now uncovered, ready to reach out to people once again.

  Angus’s face flitted into my mind, and I winced as I remembered hanging up on him during our last conversation. Despite the short time we’d spent together, there had been a connection between us – a kind of mutual understanding, so rare for me to experience with anyone . . . as well as some chemistry, maybe? I’d been so anxious to protect myself that I’d abruptly cut off anything to do with him. I’d half-expected him to ring after having spotted a social media post about the newspaper article, but the phone had stayed silent. And I couldn’t get in touch now, not after what Aunt Carolyn had said about Bertie. Angus believed Bertie was a good, kind man who’d helped him when he’d needed it most. Would he ever believe what my aunt had told me?

  Did I?

  I shook my head, still unsure what to think; still unable to believe I actually had a father. For so long, he’d only been a blank face in my mind, a figure I’d barely even stopped to wonder about. Now the features had been filled in, along with other horrific details that still made me shudder when I thought of them. So much didn’t make sense to me about that story, but I couldn’t let my uncertainty shut me down again. I had to accept I’d never know the truth in order to move forward – not away from the past, but at peace with it.

  Getting to know my family was helping with that. It wasn’t just Aunt Carolyn I was forming a new relationship with. Rob and I would often leave the hospital together, stopping at the local Harvester on the way home for a bite to eat. Without my aunt to fill the void like usual, I spoke to Rob more than I ever had before. He’d always been a background fixture in the house but, now, his warm and funny presence shone. He could crack a joke about anything, and the loving way he spoke about my aunt . . . I swallowed. Maybe one day, I’d have someone like that in my life, too.

  Now, though, I wanted to make the most out of what I had – out of the life that had always been mine to grasp, if only I’d been able.

  A few days after Aunt Carolyn’s operation I went into work, early, as usual. But instead of jamming on my headphones, this time I kept them off, listening for Jane’s arrival. I hoped it wasn’t too late, because I wanted to tell her that I was itching to spearhead the exhibition. And even if it was too late, I had loads of great ideas I wanted to share. Finally, after what felt like forever, I heard her voice.

  ‘Jane!’ I popped my head up, and her eyebrows rose.

  ‘Ella, hi. How’s your aunt getting on?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’ Relief filtered through me that Aunt Carolyn would make a full recovery. ‘Listen, I wondered if I might be able to get involved with the exhibition after all?’

  Jane grinned. ‘Of course! And thank God, I might say. We’ve been struggling here to come up with anything worthwhile, apart from the usual. It’ll be great to have you on board.’

  I’d nodded and smiled, then spent the next few days in a whirlwind of meetings with Marketing, Public Relations and my other colleagues in the musical archives. It was amazing how friendly and enthusiastic everyone was, and I had a feeling we were really going to pull together something special. I was enjoying ta
lking with other people who shared my vision and who wanted to make this exhibit as exceptional as I did. We were even planning a trip to the British Museum in the next few weeks.

  The past would never be completely behind me. But whatever had happened, I was here, fully present and ready to embrace the future.

  To live.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  JUDE

  April 1988

  Jude faced the sea and drew in a breath. This was it: soon she’d be under the waves, floating weightless in the brine . . . free. She shrugged off her cardigan and kicked off her shoes, wincing as the stones bit into her soles. The effects of the whisky she’d swallowed earlier had vanished and every sense was heightened now, as if her body knew what her mind was planning to do and was living every last second to the fullest.

  She waded into the water, wincing again as the cold sea made her toes and ankles ache. An image of Ella sound asleep in her warm bed jerked into Jude’s mind, and pain slashed through her. She loved her daughter, of course she did. But she couldn’t— She swallowed. As long as she was Ella’s mother, she would never be free of him; of what had happened. After six long years, she knew that now, and finally, she accepted it. She took another step forward, stumbling over the rocks underfoot.

  ‘Hey!’ A voice behind her made her turn. An older man was staring at her, his dog straining at the lead. ‘All right?’ The man’s eyes were worried, and irritation flitted over her. Shit. The last thing she needed right now was a good Samaritan.

  ‘Perfect, actually.’ She used every bit of remaining energy to force a bright smile. ‘Just wanted to see what the water was like this time of year.’

  ‘Bloody freezing.’ The man shivered. ‘Right, come on then, Duke.’ He gave her a smile and turned to go.

  Jude waited until he was gone, then scanned the horizon. Thankfully, for the time being, the dog walkers and joggers were nowhere to be seen. She walked further into the sea, her feet and ankles now numb. This was exactly what she wanted. Numbness. To feel nothing. Not the tug of war between love and loathing; not guilt, and not sadness.